Grave Thoughts
by HollyHop
Summary: After Sherlock's fall, his grave is visited by some of his old friends, each with their own story to tell. In the end, however, all roads lead to John and when Sherlock returns after almost three years, feelings finally surface. Johnlock. Reunion fic.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is set after the Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock has his grave visited. Johnlock. Reunion fic.

Disclaimer: I don't own John or Sherlock, ACD, Moffat and Gatiss do, the filthy-minded kinksters.

Grave thoughts

One: Greg Lestrade

So, um, hello smart-arse. I promised myself I'd come round regularly, to let you know how I am and how things are going at the Yard. But somehow things have been a bit busy lately and I haven't been able to get down here for a few weeks. It's been almost six months now, since … and … well, John's a mess. We've been meeting up once in a while, just, y'know, to keep in touch and have a couple of beers. Mike and I are trying to keep his spirits up a bit. I guess it's fair to say that we all miss you. Annoying bastard.

XXX

"John, over here!" Lestrade was sitting in one of the booths at the far end of the small pub, where they'd arranged to meet. John lifted a hand to show his friend that he'd seen him and made his way over.

"Greg." They shook hands and John sat down opposite the Detective Inspector. Ever since Sherlock's fall they had met up once a week to talk and to reassure each other that Sherlock had been right about Moriarty and not a fraud. Well, Lestrade had spent most of the time reassuring John. But these hours spent chatting about life, latest crimes, their mutual friend and John's work, had given both of them a firmer grip on what had happened. And over the last few months a true friendship had developed between them.

"So, how was work today?" Lestrade signalled the waitress to bring another beer, while trying to keep things light and casual. Usually they would start out, chatting amiably until at some point in the evening one of them accidentally mentioned something that made them both think of Sherlock and then the conversation would ultimately get stuck in a rut. John would remember all the times Sherlock had made him stop in awe and then all the little things Sherlock did, that had made him so endearing and then he'd start getting angry about his friend leaving him alone like that and in the end Lestrade would have to stop John from drinking too much and take him home in time before he started to cry.

"Fine. I think, I accidentally prescribed haemorroid ointment instead of that mouth ulcer stuff, though. Well, I hope they'll read the prescription before they apply it." They both giggled at the thought. "How's things on the force?" A shadow flickered across John's face, but he quickly wiped it blank again. No use in starting to think about Sherlock this early in the evening.

"Good. Well, not so good actually. We still haven't a clue who is responsible for the death of that poor Jennings girl. Took us a week only to identify her body and now we're stuck. No clues, no evidence. Ah well, something'll turn up." Lestrade tried to gauge the effect this information was having on John. But the face of the man sitting opposite him, remained somewhere between impassive and politely interested. "I saw Molly today. She sends her love. Don't think she'll ever get over it, poor girl." Lestrade bit his lip. Maybe mentioning getting over it had been a bit inconsiderate. Too late now. But John smiled a half smile at him, his eyes on his beer.

"Well, she … cared a lot for him. So, it's quite natural to be upset, I guess." He sat up from his slightly hunched position, taking his arms off the tabletop in front of him and took a sip from his glass. Lestrade studied John's face surrepticiously, while wondering if John was even aware of his own feelings for Sherlock and if he would ever own up. The others had a bet running at the yard, as to whether John and Sherlock had really been lovers. Personally, he didn't think so, but he grew more and more sure of the fact that John's feelings for his brilliant flatmate hadn't been entirely platonic, even if he'd never let on.

"Yes, she hasn't been the same since. Quite jumpy and irritable. I talked to her about that Jennings girl and she honestly said I might as well try and deduce next weeks football results, I'd be just as successful. I never thought she could be so snippy." Lestrade shook his head. Her comment had hurt him a lot more than he'd let on. Of course, Sherlock had done most of the work on their combined cases, but he had by no means a bad record. Numbers have slipped a bit since … but that didn't mean he was useless with out the impertinent show-off. Lestrade was so busy restraining his anger that he didn't notice John give a quick laugh.

"I s'pose, she is getting a bit reckless now that she doesn't give a damn about anything anymore." John didn't know, whether he was actually talking about Molly or not.

"She's lost one person she truly cared for and now everything else in life just doesn't matter that much anymore. So, you might as well call things by their proper names. Huh," he gave a snort of derision, "Maybe we should all do that. The world would be a more honest place. Sherlock never played to anyone's whimsies or foibles. He just said what he thought."

Lestrade stared at John open-mouthed. This was a bit too early to be getting into rambling about Sherlock again.

"Sometimes he hurt people, just by telling them the truth but ultimately … ultimately," Lestrade knew that John wasn't talking to him anymore but to himself now, "isn't it kinder to tell them the truth and be done with it, than to … to tiptoe around it all the time and in the end it hurts all the more. I know, I should have told him the truth. When he was still …" John took another large swig of his beer, returning the glass to the wooden tabletop rather more forcefully than he head intended, making the amber liquid slosh about.

"I should have told him the truth." And with this he got up, grabbed his jacket and strode out of the pub, leaving Lestrade to pay for their drinks.

Out on the street, he breathed in deeply. He would not cry. Rubbing both hands roughly across his face, John tried to rid himself of every thought swirling through his mind. I should have told him the truth. Only, that he hadn't even known what the truth was back then. That was something he'd only found out later. Too late. He should have known, though. Could have known. Should have stopped himself from obscuring his own feelings.

Whenever Sherlock's eyes had been on his, John had felt himself heating up. Sometimes their gaze had started out as a battle of wills, but soon John had forgotten why they had locked eyes in the first place and had just rushed into those stormy eyes, losing himself in their depths until one of them had broken contact. Sometimes these looks would haunt him. He'd be sitting in his chair by the fireplace, reading the paper or a book, when his eyes would drop shut from exhaustion and there it was. The gaze. Sherlock's eyes on his. A smile flitting across his face. And John would feel warmth spreading through his veins. These moments usually lasted for only a second, before John caught himself and cut the visions short.

Now, though, he was remembering every look they'd shared, every smile they'd given and the time his heart had skipped a beat when Sherlock had brushed past him at Buckingham Palace, wearing only a sheet. Why? Why hadn't he seen it before? The truth was that he hadn't dared to look. Tears formed in his eyes and he leaned forwards, resting his hands on his knees, trying hard to control his breathing to avoid starting to sob. This had happened more and more lately. John would go about his daily business and suddenly everything would grind to a halt, the room around him would start to spin and the tears would come uninvited.

During the first few weeks things had still been manageable. He had secretly expected Sherlock to show up alive any minute, but now after a few months his death seemed so much more real and this constantly brought John up to breaking point. His therapist had tried to get him to open up, but he still couldn't. The evenings in the pub once a week with Lestrade or with Mike, had done more to help him than any amount of therapy sessions could have. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Lestrade had followed him out of the pub and out into the street. No doubt to prevent him from getting himself into trouble. Mike and Lestrade had taken turns looking in on John, so that he wouldn't do anything stupid. Nothing had been further from his mind as long as he still nurtured the hope that the whole thing was a hoax, a trick. But now … John shook his head. No, Sherlock would never have condoned such thoughts. He would have wanted him to be strong. Whenever John had displayed his strength in the past, Sherlock had always been more than proud. John shook off Lestrade's hand and started off home. Home. He had not yet dared to call his one bedroom flat home. Home was Baker Street. Home was Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

Two: Mrs. Hudson

Hello, my dear. I brought you flowers. I know you'd be scowling now at the waste of money, but I don't want people to think that we don't take good care of your … Well, Baker Street's still the same. Mycroft is paying for the rooms. He wanted everything to stay as it was. I don't know how long that is supposed to go on but … John's moved out, he couldn't bear it. Poor dear. He's heartbroken. You shouldn't have left him like that. Not without telling him … I know you'd think me sentimental but I can't help thinking how happy you were, when he was around. I've never seen you so … soft. Oh, but I'm babbling. I need to get back. John's coming round for dinner.

XXX

"Mrs Hudson? Can I come in?" John knocked at the open door to 221A Baker Street and was trying to sound upbeat and carefree, so that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of 'the look' again. Lately, Mrs Hudson had taken to looking at him, as if he had been hideously disfigured in an accident involving torn-off limbs or cuts across the face. She'd pull her eyebrows together and her eyes would fill with tears. He couldn't bear being looked at like that. It reminded him all too forcefully of his own despair. A bit like Sherlock had hated being made aware of his feelings by the sighting of the hound in Dewer's Hollow and had viciously lashed out at John to make up for it.

"John, how lovely of you to come round." Mrs. Hudson came bustling up to him from the kitchen of her downstairs apartment. "Look at you." She hugged John, gently placing her hands on his upper arms, squeezing them firmly, as if to reassure herself and him of his presence in this house. "All thin. You're skin and bone, Dr. Watson. Didn't they tell you to eat regularly, when you trained to become a doctor? How about we have a nice meal together? I could make your favourite vegetarian stir-fry." Her voice was cheery, but her eyes betrayed the effort it took to make it so. He would have to sit through yet another meal with her, trying desperately not to talk about Sherlock and failing miserably. He would then return to his bedsit even more broken than he currently was. But he had to be strong for her sake. She mustn't see him crumble.

"That'd be lovely." His smile hurt his face almost to breaking point and he knew she must have noticed. But they both pretended that everything was just fine. John had become good at this. Pretending that he was doing fine. Laughing in appropriate intervals. Not flinching visibly when somebody mentioned Sherlock's name. Or when someone mentioned the words case, culprit, violent death, dressing gown, violin or bored. Or any other words which had ever come up during his time with Sherlock. And since this was practically always the case, he was having a hard time pretending continually that he hadn't heard and was definitely fine.

John and Mrs. Hudson started cutting up the vegetables together, chatting amiably about absolutely nothing at all. John set the table and soon they were sitting opposite each other, trying to enjoy the lovely dinner Mrs. Hudson had prepared for them. John knew he wasn't eating as well as he should, but his stomach seemed to be in a state of perpetual distress and was averse to taking in any kind of nourishment. Nevertheless he led one fork after another towards his mouth, chewing and swallowing obediently.

"So, I said to Mr Chatterjee that if he wanted to continue our acquaintance, he would have to be more open to me about his marriage. I'm not saying that I mind him being married, because, well, I suppose that was to be expected, but I told him that he mustn't lie to me anymore." She smiled a crooked smile. "I know I shouldn't like him. I know that. But sometimes you fall in love with someone, you don't expect to fall in love with. But that's only natural isn't it? No one can predict their feelings or harness them like an oxen, well, except maybe …" She stopped. Her eyes went anxiously up to John's and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear." Her hand touched his in an apologetic way.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, it's fine. Maybe we have to stop tiptoeing around this. Maybe it will get easier, if we actually talked about him once in a while. Y'know, we might remember the stuff that really pissed us off, as well, instead of just remembering the good times." Mrs. Hudson half giggled, half sobbed at this thought. John's eyes were now steadily on hers and expressing this idea already seemed to have plucked a poisoned arrow from his chest. He couldn't help smiling.

"For example, when he shot your wall with a pistol. Or when he played the violin in the middle of the night. Badly." John shook his head at the thought of Sherlock scratching tunelessly on his violin, while he was thinking.

"Oh yes, dear, or when he refused to dress and walked around in his dressing gown and pyjamas all day, like a common slob." Her eyes shone with mirth, while John sat thunderstruck. He couldn't reciprocate her smile. He couldn't move. Images flashed through his mind. Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, his dark curls dishevelled, lying on the couch or walking around their rooms agitated, restless. The dressing gown flapping listlessly around his lithe body. Begging John to entertain him, begging for a cigarette. Urging him to find him a case. Sometimes just lounging in his chair opposite John's, watching telly, zapping through the channels without pause, nothing catching his attention, nothing to pique his interest. Once in a while watching a documentary about scientific discoveries, being able to mouth along with the commentary, because he already knew everything about the subject. Mrs. Hudson must have caught the look of terror on John's face, because she stopped smiling and took his hand again.

"John, dear, I know how much he meant to you. And I think he knew it, too. I know you're beating yourself up about never having told him, but I am sure he knew. He just never … he just couldn't put his feelings into words. Probably the only thing that Sherlock was incapable of. But I have seen the way he looked at you, dear. Believe me, he loved you with all his heart." John's eyes were by now conducting a detailed analysis of the linoleum surface of the table. He took in every scratch, every spot left by years of breakfasts, lunchs and dinners. The tears he'd been fighting to hold back, were leaving small patches on the tabletop, distorting the pattern underneath like a caleidoscope.

They sat in silence for five minutes, while they both tried to collect themselves. Then John got up and they both knew that the evening was over. Mrs. Hudson got his jacket from the coatrack and they hugged again before saying goodbye. John made his way back home on foot. It took him the best part of an hour, but he needed the time to think. He needed to walk it off. Needed to get himself tired enough to fall asleep fast. Needed Sherlock to be with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Three: Mycroft

So, still looking for Moran and the rest of Moriarty's network? Well, I am sure you're doing the best you can. John seems to be avoiding me. He doesn't reply to my e-mails or return my phone calls. I suppose that's fair, given that I … made a minor miscalculation. I know you'd scoff at this. A minor miscalculation, Mycroft? You let yourself be charmed by a calculating criminal because you thought you were infallible. And he played you. You don't know how many times I have berated myself for that. But I will make it up to you. I will tell John something about you that I have never told anyone. I hope that upon your return, this will finally give you the happiness you deserve. This time he will answer my e-mail and coem to my office, I'm sure of it.

XXX

"Ah, John, sit down, sit down. You look pale. Are you alright?" Mycroft's voice was tinged with concern, but John wasn't sure how sincere his sentiments were. Sometimes he thought Mycroft was indeed worried about Sherlock and had a genuine interest in John's well-being. But sometimes, he appeared utterly distant and detached from all human emotion. John wondered, what had made both brothers cut themselves off from feelings like that. And how to break the shell.

"I'm fine, thank you, Mycroft." John remained standing, not wishing to prolong this conversation, adopting his soldiery mind-set, preparing himself mentally to be denied all of his wishes.

"Well," Mycroft sat himself down in a low chair opposite John, instead of choosing to sit behind the desk, shielding himself like he had the first time they'd met after Sherlock's death. "How is work, John?" Mycroft's eyes were studying John's face, no doubt reading him like an open book. John sighed. He really didn't like this particular talent that much. Although he had admired it on Sherlock, he had always thought it really annoying, when the deductions had been directed at him.

"Quite." Mycroft nodded at him in agreement. John snorted and shook his head. This was going to be fun.

"John, sit down, I need to tell you something about Sherlock." John rolled his eyes and obstinately remained standing.

"Very well." Mycroft folded his hands in his lap. John would make up his mind soon enough.

"When Sherlock was sixteen, he went to a very expensive, very respectable public school. At this point his mind was already far more advanced than that of his fellow pupils. This quickly came to the attention of one of science teachers, a young and no doubt ambitious man, who had taken up the post as chemistry teacher, to be able to earn enough money for his studies on poisonous alkaloids. Fresh from university, he knew that Sherlock might be … a tool he could use, to achieve his goals much sooner than expected. He took Sherlock under his tutelage and together they spent many afternoons, working on experiments, researching different kinds of poisons and no doubt dabbling in other scientific fields, too.

It wasn't long, before I noticed a change in Sherlock. He started to neglect all his other interests, refused to come home from boarding school for the Christmas and Easter breaks, but stayed on, no doubt to spend more time with the man he had been careless enough to fall in love with." Here Mycroft made a short break to let the information sink in. John gave no sign of being in any way unsettled by this information, but simply kept on staring at Mycroft, as if this was an especially tedious lecture about personal hygiene. Mycroft heaved a sigh and went on.

"Although I have never been able to make myself feel emotions quite as acutely as others, I have neverthelss been able to detect them easily. I noticed all the signs. Sherlock would talk of his teacher's talents and abilities constantly, his face aglow and his eyes bright. Sometimes he would disappear for an entire weekend in the laboratory and not re-emerge until Sunday dinner. I tried talking to him about it, but how do you talk to your own brother about something as … intimate as this? So I decided to talk to Mr. Goldsworthy instead. He, naturally pretended not to have noticed anything unusual about Sherlock's behaviour towards him and brushed me off. No doubt afraid that I might ruin his research and hinder his career. After all, it was not only against school rules to have a relationship with a student but also against the law.

Well, the bitter end of it was that after I had talked to him, Mr. Goldsworthy immediately ended his liaison with Sherlock and left him heartbroken. I have never seen him so bereft. And although I felt guilty about my involvement in the whole business, I decided that it was for the best. Mr. Goldsworthy then went on to publish their combined efforts in a much lauded paper and found his way into the higher circles of the scientific community. He has, I am rather pleased to say, not had any such success with any of his other projects since, but is still a highly respected lecturer at a university that shall not be named for his own protection." Here Mycroft threw a pointed look at John, who couldn't stop his teeth from trying to chew the words he'd just heard, before deciding to swallow them down whole. Mycroft stood up and put a hand on John's shoulder in, what he thought was a comforting gesture.

"Now, you will understand why Sherlock has never again allowed himself to let any feelings for others to reach below the surface of his carefully established exterior. Well," and here Mycroft looked directly into John's eyes "that is, hardly ever." Their eyes battled for a moment, John trying not to show his hand and Mycroft trying to make him understand that he was calling his bluff.

"I know you will probably go home now and google Professor Goldsworthy and I think I can save you the trouble, by telling you that I have given him an alias to protect him and that he wasn't the chemistry teacher at Sherlock's old school, either. But I must really ask you not to consider doing any research on him, because I would have to stop you from pursuing any kind of vendetta. I have no intimate knowledge of what truly went on between them and to my understanding, the feelings might even have been one-sided."

And with this Mycroft got up from his chair and walked over to where John stood with his head held obstinately high.

"And why are you telling me this?" John tried to look into Mycroft's eyes, not wanting to seem affected by this revelation but faltered slightly.

"John, I know that your feelings towards my brother were honest and true. And I think that his feelings for you were equally so. I just want you to know, why he was never able to make them known to you. He has been badly burned in the past and has vowed never to let himself get into such a vulnerable state, again. But he has always been passionate about things and always went for excitement, rather than safety. So, I'm guessing if the goal was worth it, he'd forget about his inhibitions." Mycroft tried to sound casual, but was watching John's reaction carefully.

"What does it matter now? He's dead, Mycroft. Thanks to you. And I don't think that any of what you've just told me, can make that go away or make me feel better about it. So, if you don't mind, I'm off." John turned to leave but stopped by the door, his hand on the handle.

"Oh, and Mycroft, don't call." He opened the door and then slammed it shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Four: John

Um, so, I just wanted to come round quickly to say hi. It's been almost three years, since you … died. See, I can say it now. So at least the taxpayers' money for my therapy wasn't wasted. I booked a table at the restaurant at seven. It's my wedding anniversary today, that is, it would be if Mary was still here. You remember the restaurant, the one I told you about, where I proposed to Mary. Well, I decided to pay my respects to her, by having a meal on us. If you could see me now, all dressed up in the funeral suit. Doesn't suit me. Mary always hated me wearing black. It's been five months since she … and I'm trying to get back into work properly. Have been doing part-time, like I did when you …

_Sherlock. I don't know how to go on. I have always prided myself on being a soldier and on being able to harness my feelings and not let them run away with me. You'd have been proud of me. But now everything is empty. I get up, I get dressed and I don't hear you moving around downstairs, I don't find you on the couch, when I go to the kitchen to make tea. I can hardly remember your smile now. It's been so long. No, that's a lie. I remember everything about you. Evertime I close my eyes, you're there. Still. Always._

John made his way down to "The Ivy House", the restaurant where he had proposed to Mary more than two years ago. They had known each other, since he and Sherlock had solved the mystery of her father's death and John had been sure that if anyone could cure him from his despair it was her. She had a way of understanding him that made him find his footing in life again. Even his darkest memories suddenly seemed softened by her presence. And he was finally able to laugh again. Something he had never thought possible after Sherlock's death. And he was able to talk to her about Sherlock, without fearing any judgement. She had gotten to know the detective at his best, when he was on a case, nimble-minded and energetic and had therefore seen only the brilliant mind and generous manner. And she understood John's bereavement without ever insinuating that she thought them to be more than friends.

At the Yard, everyone had looked at him, as if he'd lost his lover. And Molly had tried, in her inimitably bumbling manner, to cheer him up by suggesting online dating for gay men. He had almost shouted at her for being so utterly idiotic, but had caught himself in time, knowing she had meant well. Afterwards, it had taken him months to be able to talk to her again. Why did nobody understand that it wasn't the physical attraction that bound him to Sherlock but the knowledge of having found a soulmate. Although he had to admit that, especially during the last months before Sherlock's death, there had been moments, in which Sherlock had struck him as utterly desirable. And no other man had ever conjured those feelings within him. He knew that he was not gay in the traditional sense. Men in general didn't attract him. And although he knew his feelings for Sherlock to go beyond the platonic, he didn't want anyone to think they had been lovers. The term in itself seemed to degrade the connection he had felt with his friend. They had been so much more and yet never quite.

When the waitress came to his table, she had to ask him for his order twice, before he heard her.

"Oh, sorry, yes, I'll have a glass of water and the Beaujolais and then the bruschetta and the vegetable lasagna. Thank you." He tried to smile at her but only managed to stretch his lips a bit wider. He wasn't really hungry, hadn't been ever since Sherlock's death, but he had always forced himself to eat regular meals. He knew how important this routine was, to keep going. To keep himself alive after severe trauma. Sherlock often hadn't eaten for days on end, while he was working on a case and John had worried about his health. And he had promised himself never to make that same mistake.

The waitress brought the water and the wine. John took a sip of the water, when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, expecting to see the waitress bringing his bruschetta and then dropped the glass he was holding. Without him noticing it, his hands tried to push his body away from the table, his eyes staring at the apparition and his brain reeling off a million thoughts within a split second. The chair gave way and he tumbled backwards, crashing hard onto the floor, his spine bruising painfully against the wooden backrest. Sherlock. Through the pain, John's brain compressed the million thoughts to one. Sherlock.

He rolled off the backrest and pushed himself up from the floor, putting a hand to his injured back. Now he was having hallucinations in public. He had been wrong. Therapy was useless. He stood with his back to the table when his hallucination spoke.

"John." He knew that voice. Knew it so well still. Let it wash over him like summer rain. His head nodded out of it's own accord. Trying to make him acknowledge a truth, he still didn't think was true. He swivelled around, convinced to see everyone in the restaurant staring at him and his inexplicable outburst and no Sherlock to be seen anywhere. But there he was. In his coat, white shirt open at the neck, his eyes trained on John's, burning with intensity.

"No." John held up a hand, to prevent Sherlock from coming any closer to him and stepped back, stumbling across the chair still lying at his feet and found himself back on the floor, his coccyx complaining about the sudden impact.

"John …" Sherlock's voice was tinged with guilt. John scrambled to his feet, not wanting Sherlock having to help him up, not ready for contact with this phantasm yet.

"I'm so sorry, John. I had no idea you would be so affected." They stood, still over five feet apart, trying to gauge the other one's thoughts through their gaze.

"Shall we have dinner?" Sherlock pointed at the table set for two at which John had been sitting alone. There was another long silence, while John tried to control his conflicting emotions. On the one hand he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face, for letting him believe he was dead and on the other hand he wanted, more than ever, to take this impossible man into his arms, holding him close. Finally being able to tell him, what he'd been holding back for so long. John was feeling rather sick at the thought of saying the words and the possible reaction to them. What if Sherlock bluntly told him that he wasn't interested? Or worse, what if Sherlock told him that he was. What then?

"No." John shook his head and walked past Sherlock towards the exit, grabbing his coat from the hat stand on his way out. He had to get things sorted in his head. Walking aimlessly around London, John's feelings oscillated between anger and joy. Sherlock was alive. Why hadn't he let him know, though? He could have sent John an SMS, left a note at 221B or, he snorted at this, at his new address, which was certainly not unknown to Sherlock. Something, anything. Why hadn't he contacted him? John lost track of how long he was wandering the streets, before he decided to make his way back home, hoping that Sherlock had read his mind and would find him there.


	5. Chapter 5

Five: Sherlock

You have every right to be angry with me, John. But I didn't dare tell you. I didn't dare slip up again, like I had, when I had allowed Moriarty to discover that you were my achilles heel. This time, I had to control myself better. But now … oh, now everything has changed. Moriarty's net has been destroyed and we are freed. John. I need you to come home. I need you.

John's step on the stairs was a bit cautious. He was sure that Sherlock would be there, waiting for him. And he had made up his mind. They had wasted too much time already dallying about, obscuring their feelings. But what if Sherlock couldn't … just couldn't feel that way? What would he do? How could their friendship go on?

And before John knew it, he stood within the doorframe, taking a last deep breath. He could see Sherlock standing in the shadows by the window in the darkened room, turning as John took the last few steps into the room.

"Why?" John's voice was hoarse and the word almost didn't make it out of his mouth.

"Moriarty had hired three assassins, their guns trained on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. If I hadn't jumped - if all of you hadn't believed me dead, they would have killed you on the spot. I had to jump and I had to make it convincing."

"How?" John was still struggling with the information he had just received but was already pushing for more.

"Molly helped me and Mycroft. Everyone you saw in front of St. Bart's that day was cued in. I only had to make sure, you were positioned in such a manner that you couldn't see the spot where I would land, because then you would have seen me jump into a rescue net. A pint of blood was squirted over my face and you were deliberately knocked down to lengthen the time it took you to reach my body. I'm sorry, John."

"Did you ever … regret it?" John had walked up to the window and was now standing next to Sherlock, both looking out onto the quiet street beneath. His eyes never left the street below, unable to look at Sherlock for fear of his eyes betraying his feelings.

"Never." Sherlock's gaze was also directed at the house on the opposite side, scouring the windows for signs of unusual movement. Moran would certainly have one or two of his monkeys watching John's flat, as well as 221B. They would have to be careful. "Always." And now Sherlock turned to lock his eyes on John's.

"When I first saw you at St Barts, I knew you were an army doctor, invalided home from the war in either Afghanistan or Iraq. Army means loyalty, being able to follow orders. Wounded in the war means bravery before the enemy. A doctor, so - very intelligent and endowed with the gift of empathy. I knew you would be the perfect additon to my enterprise." Here he paused for the tiniest of fractions. "I didn't know I would fall in love with you."

John finally lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's stormy ones. They stood perfectly still. Their bodies almost but not quite touching. Eyes locked onto each other, breaths colliding in front of their mouths, like waves crashing onto the beach. John stood paralysed by Sherlock's gaze. He wanted this. Wanted Sherlock to kiss him now, to press his angelic lips against his own. To take John's face into his delicate hands. He wanted Sherlock to be just as needy as he was. Wanted him to hunger for this kiss, for the clash of their bodies and their tongues.

A war was raging inside of him. On the one hand, he wanted Sherlock to make the first move but if this didn't happen soon, he'd be forced to do it himself. He couldn't wait any longer. Had told himself too often he didn't have these feelings, told himself he didn't need this. But now, all he wanted was for Sherlock to run his hands along his body, making him high with lust. His eyes on Sherlock's, John didn't need to apply any of his friend's methods of deduction, to see the fire burning in his eyes.

"Sherlock … " The name slipped out breathessly, undermining John's attempt at putting anything about this situation into words. His eyes went down to Sherlock's lips and suddenly they were upon each other. The shock John had felt at the revelation of their feelings was gone and he pressed himself against Sherlock's lithe body, grabbing the back of his shirt with both hands. This seemed to motion his friend into action and he took John's face in his hands, prolonging their kiss, allowing their lips to part, letting their senses take over. John could taste Sherlock in his mouth and it was setting him on fire. Every stroke of their tongues was like a hot knife, stabbing his body. John's desire cranked up a notch, when he felt Sherlock's hands unbutton his black jacket and slip it off his shoulders. He broke the kiss overwhelmed by his need.

"Sherlock, I …" He couldn't go any further.

"I know. Listen, we haven't got much time. There is still one of Moriarty's men on the loose and I have reason to believe that he will be having an eye on this place. I slipped in through the window on the roof, but I suppose that they won't be fooled forever."

"No, that's not was I was going to say, smart-arse. You know how I feel about you, I don't have to tell you that. I was just going to say that I think there is someone on the other side of the road, watching this window." He nodded in the direction from which he had seen the slight movement.

"Hm-mh, I know. He's been watching your flat for three hours now. He saw you come in but he didn't see the lights come on, so I guess, he'll be thinking you went straight to bed. I came in through the window in the roof, so he wouldn't know I'm here, which gives us at least until tomorrow morning." Sherlock took John's face in his hands again, marvelling once more at how this seemingly unobtrusive man, could produce these utterly extraordinary feelings within him. This time their kiss was much slower to start with, both enjoying the sensations it produced within them. They gently ran their hands along each others bodies, fuelling their desire with every touch. Sherlock started to pull John's shirt out of the waistband of his trousers, which kick-started a rapid increase in the speed of their movements. John was tearing at Sherlock's buttons, ripping a few in the process, while Sherlock fumbled with John's belt. Their breathing became urgent and they both knew what was coming.

Stumbling John's bedroom, they worked their way out of their clothes inbetween kisses and tumbled onto the bed in a half-undressed heap, grappling at each other with long denied passion. John was still slightly incredulous at the fervent desire Sherlock displayed and at his own urgent need but didn't complain as his friend stripped off his last remaining clothes and rolled on top of him, naked and burning with lust. John had to suppress a giggle at the utter impossibility of the situation but quickly caught himself and finally allowed passion to rush through his body, blanking out every kind of inhibition he had ever had about being in bed with Sherlock.

The next morning, they set out to catch the last of Moriarty's hitmen. And for the first time in years, John felt truly happy. He also, for the first time, felt that the thrill of the chase fell far below the thrill he had experienced only a few hours ago.


End file.
